


Kindling

by rightsidethru



Series: Steter Network Monthly Prompts [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Burning, But definitely need to warn for that., But it's only for a tiny bit I promise., Creature Inheritance, Creature Stiles, Dragon Stiles Stilinski, Fire, Hale Fire all over again., Hunters are assholes and Stiles takes the brunt of it., Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapped Peter Hale, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Steter - Freeform, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Character Death, The Steter Network, The Steter Network Monthly Prompts, Tumblr Prompt, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 00:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12399078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: Once upon a time ago, Stiles remembers cool scales: leather pebbly beneath his curious, exploring touch. Once upon a time ago, Stiles remembers the touch of an unfettered breeze against his cheeks, the chilled bite of air far too thin for most to breath easily. Once upon a time ago, Stiles remembers the strong beat of wings beneath his legs, remembers the way his stomach jumped to his throat at a sudden, sharply steep dive: remembers, too, the happy whoop of air leaving his lungs in a breathless cry of absolutelyjoyas he plummeted back down to earth. Once upon a time ago, Stiles remembers the heat of a forge, the heart—molten at its core—hidden deep beneath this world’s crust, reassuring in its fire—steady beat of a giant heart—against his baby cheek. Once upon a time ago, Stiles remembers that he dreamt of dragons.





	Kindling

**Author's Note:**

> Steter Network Prompt: October 2017 - Orange
> 
> _Warning:_ Asshole hunter sets Stiles on fire in front of Peter ala the Hale fire. I don't go into too much detail, but it is inferred that Stiles dies from it-- _but it's only temporary_. (Hint: The tags pretty much tell how he manages to survive.)
> 
> **
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated! <3
> 
> **
> 
> Just as a head's up: My posting schedule is probably going to slow in the upcoming weeks due to the fact that I'll be working on several different Secret Santas that I signed up for, a belated birthday present, NaNoWriMo (pray for me), and any potential winning bids for my entry for the Fandom Loves Puerto Rico charity auction (more info and links to what I'm offering can be found over [here](http://rightsidethru.tumblr.com/post/166503710006/fandom-loves-puerto-rico-live-auction); the deadline to bid is 10/23, the money is going to a charity to help Puerto Rico recover in the long term, and lots of people have volunteered their talents to help make this auction an awesome one). Pretty sure that I'm missing a couple of other things... Needless to say, I decided to heap lots and lots on my plate, but hopefully you all will enjoy what I end up writing once I'm allowed to reveal everything. :P <3

_“Always speak politely to an enraged dragon.”_  
― Steven Brust,  **Jhereg**

++

“Mama! Mama! Mama!”

Once upon a time ago, Stiles remembers cool scales: leather pebbly beneath his curious, exploring touch. Once upon a time ago, Stiles remembers the touch of an unfettered breeze against his cheeks, the chilled bite of air far too thin for most to breath easily. Once upon a time ago, Stiles remembers the strong beat of wings beneath his legs, remembers the way his stomach jumped to his throat at a sudden, sharply steep dive: remembers, too, the happy whoop of air leaving his lungs in a breathless cry of absolutely _joy_ as he plummeted back down to earth. Once upon a time ago, Stiles remembers the heat of a forge, the heart—molten at its core—hidden deep beneath this world’s crust, reassuring in its fire—steady beat of a giant heart—against his baby cheek. Once upon a time ago, Stiles remembers that he dreamt of dragons.

Once upon a time ago, Stiles still had a mother.

Not so long ago, Stiles’ Spark grew into an inferno: captured and caught and buried fathoms deep until only the faintest of glows was visible to any who happened to glance his way.

Now?

_Now the fire raged._

++

From the moment that he had been taken by the hunters, Peter knew that the others wouldn’t come looking for him. He barely spoke with his nephew on the best of days, family bond brittle and crumbling each and every time he glanced its way. There _was_ no pack bond between himself and Scott, nothing tenuous and faint to tie him to any of the teen’s betas: there was a brick wall, stalwart and strong—foundation buried far beneath the surface—between the blue-eyed man and the others, and Peter was enough of a realist to know that there was no point in trying to chisel away at _that_ particular obstacle.

Scott would just make sure to build it higher, stronger, thicker next time.

Lydia may have realized by this point in time that Peter had been taken, but there was no love lost between the beta and the banshee: he had damaged her psyche too thoroughly for her to ever be willing to forgive him, and where Lydia led nowadays, Malia typically followed, fascinated with the strawberry blonde as she learned from the older girl, adopting cutthroat pragmatism that was only ever emphasized by her coyote nature. Peter was not pack to his daughter, was less than a father to her, as well: there would be no rescue from that quarter, either.

Perhaps the older ‘wolf may have turned to Stiles, cautious in his trust but hopeful in the potentialities that stretched between them both, suspended midair by the boy who so often had others dancing to his muted, subtle tune—but the tentative, spidersilk bond that had begun to tie the both of them together—the very beginning stages of a pack bond—had snapped days ago, and Peter could not help but wonder _why_.

There was a sort of heat, flaring brighter and hotter with every passing hour, that lingered in the dark emptiness where the pack bond had been growing; it was instinctive now for Peter to shy away from the too intense heat—twice burned, extra shy nowadays—and it had become nearly overwhelming at times, raging on like an out of control wildfire, burning everything it touched to soot and ash: there, deep and dark and hidden far, far beneath the inferno, something rumbled in the shadows, stirring to life, and the older ‘wolf could not decide whether to be more afraid of the fire or of the Unknown.

Regardless:

He was alone and afraid, aware that he would soon be killed. The hunters had no use for him, couldn’t use him as bait, knew that Peter was too old and too jaded to be sold on the black market—aware, from experience, just what the look in the beta’s arctic-blue gaze meant for anyone who attempted to tame him—and it didn’t take long to realize that the blond man was nothing more and nothing less than a liability the longer they kept him alive. Liabilities were danger, especially the ones who were more than ready and willing to _bite_.

Before that, however:

“Got a surprise for you,” the current leader of this particular band of hunters said, gaze dark with malice even as cruel amusement curled his mouth upwards in a parody of a smile. “Originally, I wasn’t planning on showing you, but… well, I admit to being enough of a speciest to know when to cull the ones who’re never gonna be willing to learn better.”

The hunter’s smile sharpened, turned predatory, and he gestured towards one of his lieutenants.

It wasn’t long after that particular confirmation to act that several others entered into the echoing expanse of space that Peter had been forced to call his new home over the past few days: the hunters grunts as they carried something heavy, something that weighed enough that it took at least two others to assist each other with the item, bounced back and forth from the far walls, filling the air with exertion and a creeping sort of expectation—and it was then that the blue-eyed ‘wolf heard a heartbeat that had become all too familiar to him from the moment two idiotic boys stumbled across a dead body in the middle of the preserve.

“No,” Peter said, refusing to believe. “You wouldn’t—no. He’s still a child. He’s _human_.”

The hunter’s eyes glittered in the low light of the cell. “Yup,” the man answered, purposefully popping the ‘p.’ “Human and enough of a dog lover to still be considered a traitor to his own species. Sad, isn’t it?”

Two hunters stepped into large room at that particular comment, dragging Stiles’ too still body between the both of them. The boy was quiet enough that he almost seemed dead, limbs hanging uselessly between his two captors, expression slack beneath bruised and bloody skin. It was only the regular _ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump_ of the teen’s heart that reassured Peter that the boy was still alive—but that very same beat was too slow to mean anything good.

“Wanna know what I hate more than you dogs?” the hunter continued, bringing out a cigarette from his shirt’s front pocket, match flaring to life to light the tip of the cancerous stick. “A human that can’t even stay loyal to his own kind. I always thought that there was a special level of hell reserved just for that sort of betrayal.”

The man took a deep drag of the cigarette, taking the smoke within his lungs—toxic and thick and reeking of a certain type of sickness that made Peter gag at the taste of tar upon the back of his tongue—and breathed it all out, dirty gray fog trickling from the hunter’s fat lips to highlight the man’s features with details that paralleled a skull’s grinning, rictus expression.

“I was originally gonna dispose of him quietly because he’s not worth anything else, truth be told, but… then I thought: why not give you a preview of what’s in store for you, dog?”

The match was flicked downwards, and it only dawned on Peter too late to realize just what it was that the hunters had planned: just like with his family, with his home, his pack, the hunters must have used some sort of scentless accelerant, blind to Peter’s keen nose—he had smelled _nothing_ , but they must have soaked Stiles’ clothes in _something_ before dragging the boy in for the ‘wolf to see. The moment that the match touched the teen’s clothes, he went up in flames and all Peter could _know_ , could process, was the heat of flames upon his skin, the crackle of the fire as it spread across the unconscious teen’s body, could only see oranges and yellows and blue-edged whites as everything that Peter had come to appreciate, to love, to _need_ was once more taken from him in a blaze that would leave nothing but ash behind—and Peter… and Peter…

_He screamed._

Peter’s howl echoed in the room, something dangerous and feral that tore itself up from the tattered corners of his soul. Wolf or man or both or neither: he was _Wrath_ , blue eyes neon and streaking in the darkness of the cell as the man managed to rip himself from his bindings, incoherent, berserker rage granting him the sort of strength that had been beyond his reach for days.

He was Death.

The ‘wolf’s claws ripped through jugulars and bellies, spilling gore and blood and meat on floor and ground, splattering across walls in a dangerous sort of abstract art that sang of fury and pain, of death dealt with the intent to cause as much pain as possible as victims bled out. One by one, the hunters fell, all of them scrambling for weapons that Peter paid no heed towards. All that he wanted was to feel flesh part beneath his touch, to have the taste of cooper warm within his mouth—to find something, somewhere, to quench the desolate sort of loss that was spreading within him.

“Shoot him!! Do it now! Put him down! _PUT HIM DOWN!!_ ” the hunter screamed at the others, desperately trying to run from the one-time man intent on ripping his heart from his chest—much in the same way that the hunter had just done to Peter, cleaving the last sort of connection that the ‘wolf felt towards _anyone_ , foundation and anchor and pack and _more_ gone in a moment that rang so very closely with the loss that Peter had suffered years before, as well.

Just behind them all, the inferno that encased Stiles’ body flared brighter, hotter, consuming everything within its hungry embrace—claiming the boy for its very own—and grew larger and larger still as chaos surrounded it, letting it go unchecked and unheeded even as the warm tint to the flames leeched itself of color to bleed cool, star’s heart blue. Cobalt and navy, the electric of a glacial blue: icy shades sparking into existence as the inferno burned hotter and hotter until something shadowy within its depths finally shifted and stood. It was then that the flames tightened their grasp, coming in closer to press against unblemished, milk-pale skin, and Stiles looked up with a burning, orange gaze—pupils slit and coldly reptilian—and the boy _roared_.

Time stopped.

Peter stuttered to a halt, eyes wide in both disbelief and hope—

And Stiles’ gaze settled upon the hunters’ leader, the man who had started all of this in the first place. The teen smiled at the hunter, grin wide and toothy, filled with teeth that were far too sharp and predatory to be anything _close_ to human, and held up a hand that was still coated in flames.

“Should have checked to make sure I was human in the first place before setting me on fire and lecturing me on my disloyalty to humanity, asshole,” Stiles rumbled, voice far too low to be anything natural, unsettling when paired with the teen’s lanky, still growing body. The voice was one that whispered of caverns hidden beneath the surface of the earth, dark and stretching on for miles and miles, gold glinting from the corners of eyes even as woodsmoke filled the air, turning the air humid and hot and sharp with the scent of _lizard_.

Something shifted within the low light of Peter’s cell, something dangerous and assessingly distant in the way that wasn’t even close to being human, quick enough that not even the ‘wolf was able to fully _see_ : but there was the flash of bronze, pebbled leather, thickly corded muscle wings, a tail ending in a razor-sharp tip: and fangs and claws and _bloodlust_ and the desire for revenge that fanned flames far hotter than anything manmade or _kind_.

And Peter?

Stepped back to watch the world burn once more.

++

Smoke trickled from Stiles’ nostrils, wreathing the dragon’s mole-kissed face, haloing the teen’s head in a silvery crown: the boy’s eyes glowed from within the hazy cloud, blood-tinged orange the color of sunset and both alien and familiar as Peter reached out to brush a claw-tipped finger against the edge of Stiles’ jawline.

“The greatest treasures were most often guarded by the slyest and cruelest dragons,” Peter murmured, quoting something he remembered seeing in one of Adam Nevill’s writings even as his fingertip finally stopped at the tip of Stiles’ chin, the ‘wolf’s claw lightly indenting the full curve of the boy’s lower lip.

It was enough to make Stiles’ smile, however, once again slow and predatory and filled with too many sharp teeth, but something within Peter finally unclenched when the boy tilted his head down just enough to press a kiss to that deadly, still-bloodied claw.

“ _For where thy treasure is, there also will thy heart be_ ,” Stiles quipped in turn—and, oh, how his eyes _burned_ as that bond once again flared to life within Peter’s chest, setting him alight as the dragon watched the older man with greedy eyes, hungry and Other and possessive in claiming what had nearly been stolen from him days before.

++

Once upon a time ago, a dragon fell in love with a knight and left her tower to go and live with him.

Once upon a time ago, Stiles dreamt of dragons and the freedom of the air.

Once upon a time ago, Stiles burned and became the flame—

And _Sparked_.

++

_”I am fire. I am… death!”_  
\- Smaug, **The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug**


End file.
